


‘A jug of wine...’

by Crowgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Picnics, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 03:23:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19759603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: They’re miles from London, miles from the nearest motorway, not quite miles from humans but close enough.





	‘A jug of wine...’

**Author's Note:**

  * For [janto321 (FaceofMer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/gifts).



‘What on…’ Aziraphale stops with one foot still on the lowest bookshop step.

Crowley pats the padded seat just behind his own hips. He hadn’t gotten off the motorcycle, one long leg stretched out, foot planted flat to keep the whole contraption steady. ‘C’mon, then.’

‘Crowley, _really--’_

‘Really what?’ Crowley leans forward, forearms propped on the handlebars, eyebrows raised. ‘It’s either this or all those _lovely_ goodies I spent the morning digging up will just go to waste.’ He had, too: it wasn’t like he could just stop off at Harrods. This needed to be _special._

Aziraphale eyes him dubiously. ‘There’s not room for a single other item on that thing.’ 

‘And since when do I need saddlebags?’ Crowley slips his sunglasses down his nose and lets his eyes glint at Aziraphale. 

‘Aren’t those…’ Aziraphale waves a hand at the bike. ‘...dangerous?’

‘Terribly.’ Crowley grins and is caught, for once in his long life, absolutely flatfooted when Aziraphale grins back, a brighter, only slightly softer version of his own sharp-toothed smile.

‘Excellent.’ 

* * *

‘That was really quite exhilarating!’ Aziraphale announces, smoothing his hair down as Crowley rummages about in a saddlebag that doesn’t, strictly speaking, exist to find the food and wine.

‘Didn’t think you had it in you, angel,’ Crowley says, straightening up with a basket in one hand and a clinking bag in the other only to be flatfooted again when Aziraphale smiles at him and says, ‘Isn’t it nice we can still surprise each other.’ 

‘Er -- yeah?’ Crowley stops himself before he can ask Aziraphale what the hell he’s on about and Aziraphale turns away, looking out over the sloping meadow before them. 

Crowley had drawn the bike in under the shade of the old heavy-branched trees that grew along both sides of the lane. They’re miles from London, miles from the nearest motorway, not quite miles from humans but close enough. The trees grow thick, brambles and flowers between them, but only along the edge of the road. As soon as they work their way through, there’s meadow grass easing gently away from their feet. 

‘Oh -- oh, Crowley -- how did you find this?’ Aziraphale has his hands clasped, looking down the full length of the field towards the distant sparkle of sea. 

Crowley shrugs and sets the basket down, kneeling beside it. ‘Wandering around. Seemed like a nice place.’ 

Aziraphale takes off his coat, spreads it carefully over a patch of grass with no flowers, and sits. ‘You really must take me on one of these wanderings of yours if this is the sort of thing you simply stumble across.’

Crowley hopes he hides the nervous click of his throat in the noise of opening a bottle: not red this time, but a white -- light, on the edge of being sparkling. 

‘So,’ Aziraphale says, taking the glass, ‘what did you want to say to me?’ 

‘What?’ Crowley does not manage to turn his twitch into anything graceful. Instead, he topples onto the grass, landing heavily on one hip, staring at Aziraphale with glasses askew. 

Aziraphale takes a sip of wine, hums approvingly, and reaches out with his free hand to slide the glasses off Crowley’s nose. Crowley makes a grab for them too late: they’re folded and in Aziraphale’s breast pocket. ‘That’s _much_ better. Now.’ He takes another sip of wine, then props the glass carefully against the basket. ‘Would you rather I started?’

‘I --’ Crowley shakes his head hard, willing the world to settle back into sense, and it almost does. Of course, he should have known Aziraphale would _know_ \-- his fondness for acting like a doddering fuddy-duddy is just that, a fondness for acting. ‘I -- don’t know what to say.’ The words come out in a rush and he sags a little. ‘I don’t. I -- thought maybe I’d --’ He waves helplessly at the meadow, the trees above them, the unopened hamper of food by their feet and Aziraphale nods as if Crowley is making perfect sense. ‘But I don’t. I just -- I’m _sorry.’_

‘Oh, my dear, what for?’ Aziraphale pushes himself up onto his knees. ‘This is all lovely.’

‘But I -- it was supposed -- I was --’ He had been going to find the perfect thing to say, the absolute _perfect_ words to tell Aziraphale -- to tell him --

‘-- my fault you had to go through all this,’ Aziraphale is saying when Crowley tunes back in to what’s going on. _‘I_ am the one who should be sorry. So, please -- allow me.’ 

Aziraphale leans forward, slowly, almost cautiously as if he thinks Crowley might start or run or argue and the only thing Crowley can think to do is lean forward himself and so they kiss for the first time over the bottle of _grand cru_ chablis to which Crowley is still clinging. 

Aziraphale pulls back after what might be seconds or minutes or days for all Crowley knows and he absolutely does _not_ whimper when he feels the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue brush against his own lower lip as Aziraphale licks his own lips. 

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to think that I will write a second, non-Gen chapter to this.


End file.
